Thirty Five Minutes
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: Thirty-five minutes would have changed everything. - Post-ep for Showdown. D/M friendship.


**Spoilers:** Oh, I actually have some this time! Spoilers for _Showdown_.

**Disclaimer:** Been wanting to put in my two-cents worth on this episode for ages, so here it is! Feedback is really appreciated!

**Author's Note:** A nice little post-ep of angst. Well, a something-ep, anyway. More of a missing scene from _Showdown_.

* * *

He could have sworn that the lights dimmed behind him.

Like some artsy black-and-white film, the camera lens distorting until all that is left is the silhouette in the doorway, dark grey blurs smoking across the screen behind him, and he wondered if he was concussed. Thought that he probably was, not having actually heard the doctor's words, simply nodding, smiling politely, willing the nurses that buzzed around him to just go away.

It was too much like the first time. Too much like standing at the door of Rafi's room, waiting for him to wake up, waiting to tell him that Mama and Papi had died. Danny had never liked hospitals, even before then.

He had a feeling that after today, he'd never set foot in one again. Knew that that was stupid, given his line of work, but right now, staring into the bleak room, he couldn't really bring himself to care. After all, most promises were made to be broken.

He'd broken enough of his own in the past. Had, in fact, broken one tonight; and in breaking it he'd let Martin get shot. It was his job to watch his back, his job to cover him, and if Danny had been driving then it was possible that none of this would have happened. He knew that wasn't true, that the events of tonight had been entirely chance: Martin driving, neither of them paying attention, reaction time too slow, assault too hectic.

They all spun through his head again and again, tormenting him with impossible possibilities, because no thinking would change anything. No wishing or hoping or prayer could alleviate the guilt, the feeling of utter helplessness as he watched the machines keep Martin alive.

He remained frozen in the doorway for what seemed like an hour – could well have been more – before taking a step into the room, his eyes never leaving Martin's face. The only thing that Danny could think was that he was too pale, so used to seeing Martin's cheeks flushed with embarrassment or amusement, adrenaline or cold, and he wondered vaguely, stupidly, whether Martin would ever blush again.

He almost laughed at the fatalism of it all. Everyone was sure that Martin would wake up. Sure that once he did, everything would be fine. But everything wouldn't be fine, because Martin had been shot, and it was his fault. The thing that made the guilt harder was that he was sure that Martin would forgive him; would pat him on the back and tell him that he wasn't to blame.

Martin would, ironically but inevitably, feel guilty for making Danny feel guilty. Which would only make him feel worse, and he wished that he had accepted the offer of medication from the doctor. His head spun as he took another step forward, left hand unwrapping itself from his right bicep, reaching almost of its own accord.

"Sir."

Danny jumped at the sound, yanking his hand back like a naughty child, as if touching Martin were something forbidden. The thought almost made him laugh, really; touching Martin had always been forbidden, but that was why he'd done it. Pat on the arm for no reason, knocking shoulders when they sat down, fingers grazing when passing something over.

"Sir?"

Questioning this time and Danny forced himself to look up, look away from Martin. A woman in blue scrubs stood at the foot of Martin's bed, and Danny bit back the urge to tell her to leave.

"Sir, Mister Fitzgerald just came out of surgery," she said warily, like Danny didn't already know. He wished she'd call him something other than _sir_, wanted to inform her that they were federal agents, but he couldn't find the energy, couldn't be bothered talking to this woman. "He's not supposed to have visitors," she added.

"I'm not a visitor," he snapped, far too harshly, and there was no way she would let him stay now. He closed his eyes, feeling only marginally sympathetic towards the woman. He knew he'd feel bad tomorrow, but right now, all he could think was that she shouldn't be here.

"I'm not a visitor," he said more calmly. "My name is Special Agent Danny Taylor; this is Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, FBI." Introduced like they were collecting witness statements and Danny almost winced.

The woman's frown lessened a little as recognition dawned, and Danny suddenly realized that she couldn't have been older than twenty. His anger wavered.

"You were in the car with him," she said quietly, her tone now holding the learned sympathy of a nurse. Danny didn't know what she saw in his face when she said that, but she nodded as if a suspicion had been confirmed, and for a split second, he was again in Rafi's room, nurse asking the same question with the same tone of voice.

He took what was supposed to be a deep breath, his head whirling slightly as he did so. His eyes didn't stray from Martin's face.

"Agent Taylor, he needs to be bathed," she said almost carefully, and Danny wondered what she was thinking. She appeared almost to be frightened of him, and he wouldn't be surprised if she were. Man wandering around a hospital room looking lost, bleeding, angry. Armed, as far as she knew.

Then what she said sunk in, and Danny's curiosity turned again to anger. As if Martin hadn't been violated enough tonight; first being shot, then the paramedics, the ER doctors, the surgeons, all poking and prodding and Danny felt suddenly protective. He knew how much Martin hated hospitals – doctors – how much he hated being stared at, or touched by people he didn't know. Martin was a private person and the fact that he was unconscious made Danny feel like it was his responsibility to make sure that that happened as little as possible.

He dragged his eyes away from Martin's face and looked at the nurse.

"Can it wait till he's awake?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Her jaw tightened and Danny knew he was being difficult, held back the automatic urge to apologise.

"No, I'm sorry," the nurse said more firmly, eyebrows raised, and she looked a little like Vivian. But he wasn't going to think about Vivian now, because if she were here, Danny knew that he wouldn't have been able to hold himself together.

"Let me do it." Said before the thought had even materialized, and Danny winced a little at the apathy in his voice. His mind wanted to yell at her, but his words wouldn't agree, retaining that familiar forced-calm and he knew that she could hear it. She was trained the same way; not to let emotion show.

"I'm really not supposed to," she said determinedly, though Danny could see that her mind was already made up to the contrary. "Do you know how?"

Sighed, and Danny didn't think before lying. "Yes." Didn't think the nurse believed him, either, but that didn't really matter, as long as she left.

She glanced at Martin, then back at Danny before speaking. "Fine. But don't wait too long," she ordered. She picked up the bucket and sponge that Danny hadn't even noticed before and moved them over to him. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that she was explaining the procedure to him; couldn't listen to her talk about Martin in such a clinical, procedural way. Stared at the ugly blue of her scrubs, instead, nodding when he thought she was finished.

It wasn't until the nurse left the room that Danny looked back at Martin.

The feelings of anger dissipated without further consideration and the hopelessness came back full force, almost choking him. He squeezed the sponge that was in his hand, only then remembering that he had a task to do; glad for the distraction.

With the single-minded focus of the distraught, he pulled back the thin blankets on Martin's bed, trying hard not to simply watch the rise and fall of Martin's chest. Shallow as it was, it was there, and that was all Danny wanted. Well, almost all. He wanted Martin to wake up. He wanted Martin to tell him that it was okay, that he was alive, that Danny didn't need to feel guilty because he almost died and Danny's injuries could be cured with aspirin.

But he wasn't going to think about that, he was going to get Martin clean. Wash the rain and the pavement and the surgery off, and for a moment, Danny watched blood seep through Martin's hospital gown. Blood that, intellectually, he knew wasn't there. Blood that he couldn't stop seeing.

He couldn't remember much of anything that had happened since Jack had pulled him away from Martin, but he could remember washing his hands. Over and over again, like Lady Macbeth – _out, damn'd spot_ – and he'd never really _understood_ the meaning of that until now.

The blue of the gown only exacerbated the paleness of Martin's skin that was still so unfamiliar and it made Danny want to just yank the covers back up and look away. But he couldn't do that, because Martin was still not clean, and because he'd promised the nurse that he'd take care of Martin.

He didn't know when it had become so important to him that he keep his word to a woman he didn't even know, didn't really like. Not that it mattered. The last thing Danny wanted now was self-analysis; this was about Martin.

At least, that's what he told himself as he reached forward, one hand behind each of Martin's shoulders and he felt a surge of irrational anger that no one had tied his gown together. It seemed like a strange violation – like the rest of this – but it was just so _un-Martin_. Martin's clothes, however much Danny hated them, were always immaculate. Shirt pressed, buttoned to the collar, tie knotted the same way Danny imagined he'd been doing since boarding school.

The untied gown was affirmation that the man lying in front of him had nearly been erased from existence, and Danny didn't know if he could handle any more reminders. His eyes stung as he clenched his jaw and pulled the gown down slowly, stopping at Martin's shoulders. Too much pale skin revealed, and Danny couldn't help that he shut his eyes, squeezing them closed before forcing them back open.

He didn't look at Martin, though, instead focusing all his attention on the bucket and sponge, strangely surprised to feel warmth wrapping around his fingers. It shouldn't have come as a shock, but Danny hadn't realised how cold his hands were, the water – not more than body-temperature – burning his hands as if it were scalding. Realised vaguely that he liked the burn, felt just a little vindicated now that he was in at least a little pain.

The thought scared him enough to pull his hands out of the water, ringing the sponge out automatically, like this was something he did every day. His eyes shifted of their own accord to Martin's face, still pale, still motionless, and Danny couldn't look any longer. Dragged his eyes away, keeping them open by sheer force of will as he moved the sponge down Martin's arm with absolute focus.

His eyes burned as he did, watching Martin's skin prickle as the water cooled. Couldn't help that his free hand trailed behind, fingertips mapping the physical evidence that Martin was truly alive, truly here.

_Responsive_, and that was more than Danny had been given all night.

Focus never wavering as he picked up Martin's hand, determined to remove any evidence that Martin had spent the night lying on bitumen, covered in blood, sure that if the evidence wasn't there then at least some of tonight couldn't possibly have happened. Knew that he should know better – that he _did_ know better – but it didn't stop him from leaning in closer, frowning in concentration as he ran the sponge over the tips of Martin's fingers.

It was surreal: his mind blank of anything but finishing his task as he placed the sponge back into the bucket and scraped lightly under each of Martin's fingernails with his own. He wrung the sponge again, wiping it once, carefully, over Martin's hand before picking the bucket up and moving to the other side of the bed, never once looking at Martin's face.

He mirrored his actions with Martin's left arm and somewhere in the back of his mind it registered how much Martin would appreciate the symmetry of that. The order, and for the first time tonight, Danny felt almost calm. Wasn't sure why. Thought that it probably had something to do with _touching_, because Danny had always been a physical person, and just seeing that Martin was alive, just being told, was not enough.

This wasn't enough, either, but it was something.

This weird parody of intimacy.

Moving unconsciously, now, Danny set the sponge back in the bucket – really more of a container, he thought absurdly – and placed his hands flat against the shoulders of Martin's gown again, fingertips just touching his collar bones. He pulled it down slowly, eyes following his hands' movement with utter absorption. Soft, smooth skin that felt too cold, but his hands kept moving until he felt something wrong.

Had to physically stifle a yelp as his hands jerked away like Martin's cold skin had burned him, but he couldn't take his eyes off the patch of white that almost blended with Martin's skin. Almost, though, and Danny knew what was under gauze, knew the ragged wound that was being hidden behind the perfect little square. Had seen enough of them over the years to know with precise detail – more than he had ever cared for – and he wanted the calm back.

Wanted that numbing trance he'd been in only a few seconds ago, because this… This was just _agonizing_. The blood seeped through the gauze, and Danny could feel it pulsing between fingers that were balled at his sides, memory so much stranger but just as _real_ as history.

Blinked once and the blood was gone.

Blinked once, and he was no longer incapable of moving.

Strange sense of freedom, of release before panic propelled him from the bed. Barely registered his shoulder blades connecting too loudly with the wall as his throat knotted. Stopped breathing because it was too painful, everything hurting at once and he heard himself sob. A single sob, but it was more than enough to make him realise that he had to get out, had to get away, because Martin had almost _died_.

Almost died and his blood was on Danny's shirt, his pants, his shoes; could still smell gunpowder and blood and rain, underpinned by antiseptic and stale sheets. But he couldn't smell Martin. Not shampoo or soap or cologne or washing powder or sweat or whatever it was that determined how Martin smelled.

And that was his last thought before he left the room.

Thought he saw Samantha on his way out. Thought he saw the young nurse with her, hovering, chatting, but he ignored them as his stomach lurched. Bathroom a welcome sight as he pushed the door open; barely made it to the toilet before throwing up. First time since he'd quit drinking and that was terrifying.

Washing his mouth out, he knew he should go back, knew he owed Martin at least that, but he couldn't bring himself to turn around. Couldn't bring himself to look in the mirror in front of him, either.

Two months later, and Danny still couldn't turn around.

* * *


End file.
